The Swan & the Jackal

by J. A. Redmerski

  I feel like he’s somewhat relieved that I don’t know. But that’s ridiculous. Why would he be relieved that I couldn’t remember any part of my past when we’ve both fought so hard and for so long to unravel everything?

  I brush it off and smile to myself, thinking of only him. Of us. Being here together.

  But then scars flash across my mind that I do remember. Absently, I finger the ones on my thighs—six on each side—cut in a perfect horizontal line three inches across. Fredrik’s hand touches mine, moving it away from them—the scars he made when he tortured me in that chair on the other side of the basement.

  “I’m sorry I did that to you,” he says, his voice laced heavily with sadness and regret and shame and guilt. “I don’t want you to forgive me. Because I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “But I do—”

  He places his fingers over my lips. Instantly I’m compelled to shut my eyes and kiss them, but I don’t.

  “Things will be different from now on,” he says with his lips against the side of my neck. Then I feel a soft towel rubbing gently against my back as he begins to dry me off.

  “Fredrik,” I say almost in a whisper, “what made you change your mind?”

  He squeezes the ends of my hair with the towel, soaking the water into the thick cotton.

  “None of that matters,” he says. “I don’t want you to think about any of that.”

  “But what about Seraphina?” I ask quietly, nervously.

  His hands stop moving and I feel him sigh behind me.

  “Most of all,” he says regretfully, “I don’t want you to worry about her.”

  “But she’s looking for me. And I know you can protect me, but I’m still terrified of her. I’m most afraid when you’re gone. When it’s just me and Greta here.”

  I feel the towel drop and then his hands cupping my upper arms. He kisses the top of my head, standing so much taller than me. And I know that it’s just an affectionate gesture, but I can’t help but feel it’s also one of regret, or maybe even grief.

  “Cassia, would you believe me if I told you she couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t think about her?”

  I start to turn around to face him, but he carefully holds me still. Then he reaches out a hand and swipes it through the thick layer of moisture covering the large mirror.

  My hands begin to shake, though I don’t know why. My stomach ties into a nervous knot and I feel sick all of a sudden, my nerves frayed. I look down at the counter.

  “I…I don’t know,” I stutter uneasily. “H-How would that keep her from finding me?”

  I don’t know what’s happening to me…but I don’t like it.

  Fredrik continues to wipe the steam away from the mirror. I continue to look down.

  He stops and drops his arm, fitting both hands on my sides, just above my naked hips.

  “Well, I think you let her get to you too much, love.” My heart leaps inside my chest every time he calls me that. “I want you to stop worrying about her. Just stop thinking about her and live your life. The way you are now. A prisoner to no one. Not to me, or to Seraphina. Can you do that?”

  Reluctantly, I nod.

  Then I turn to face him, putting my back to the mirror.

  Pushing up on my toes, I kiss his warm and delicious lips.

  He smiles.

  “I think I can do that,” I say and smile back at him.

  He makes me breakfast and we sit together at the kitchen table like a married couple, both of us with a mug of hot coffee, Fredrik peering down at the day’s newspaper. But I can’t help but make note of how much of that newspaper he doesn’t seem to be reading because he keeps raising his eyes from it to smile—to grin—across the table at me.

  I feel like a teenager with my first crush all over again, my face flush with emotion.

  We talk for the longest time about everything and nothing. And sometimes I find myself lost in his deep and precious voice. I could listen to him talk all day and I’d never get bored or want any interruptions.

  By the time breakfast is over, I’ve changed my mind about going to New York. Not only because it’s ridiculous to go three hours away for a hot dog, but because despite Fredrik asking me to stop worrying about Seraphina, I can’t. And New York was where she tried to kill me. She plagues my thoughts and haunts my memories.

  “Why don’t you want to go?” Fredrik asks.

  I lower my gaze because I was never any good at lying and say, “I just want to stay in Maryland.” I laugh lightly for good measure. “I’ve been here for a long time and I’ve never seen anything outside of this house.”

  Fredrik frowns.

  I smile and say, “Oh no, love, I’m not blaming you,” to assure him.

  Something flickered in his eyes when I called him ‘love’.

  Why did I call him that? It doesn’t matter. I like it. And it feels right. Natural.

  He flattens the newspaper on the table and looks at me inquiringly. “So then if not New York, where would you like to go?” His gorgeous smile broadens. “I’m yours all day long.”

  My face flushes again.

  “Why don’t you pick a place?”

  He purses his lips.

  I want to kiss them…

  Fredrik

  It’s all an illusion, the voice in the back of my mind constantly tells me as I sit across from Cassia in the finest restaurant in all of Baltimore. It’s all an illusion: The two of us. Sitting here together like this. Like any normal couple would. It’s an illusion, Fredrik. Over and over again. Because I have yet to let myself believe it. A part of me doesn’t want to believe it. The old Fredrik. And the even older one. The parts of me that I’ve only ever known. What is this strange light I feel when in Cassia’s presence?

  It must be what a normal life feels like.

  And while I feel a great sense of contentment, the light scares the hell out of me just the same.

  An illusion, the darkness within me taunts. This kind of life was never meant for you, so don’t fall for it, or what’s left of your life will come crashing down around you into pieces so small that they can never be put back together again. Shut the fuck up!

  Cassia’s smile is so vibrant, yet so fragile that I feel the smallest touch of darkness can easily wash it away. She’s wearing a pretty white sweater that fits loosely about her shoulders, revealing the softness of her collarbone and long, dainty neck. An elongated gray skirt clings to her hourglass form, down past her knees and drapes over a pair of tall black winter boots. I took her shopping when we left the house this morning. She was shy and at first didn’t want me to buy her things. So, I picked out outfits for her to wear and bought them anyway. And I dressed her. And while I dressed her, I kissed the scars on her back like I’ve always done. Scars left by cuts that I put there over time, one by one, as I made love to Seraphina.

  We leave the restaurant and head back out into the cold, our shoes crunching in the mere two inches of snow that had fallen last night. I open the car door for her and help her into the passenger’s seat. The car is already warm. I made sure to use the remote start before we left the restaurant.

  “Fredrik,” Cassia says softly from her seat, “I feel like I’ve known you forever.” I look over at her and her face is flush with heat. I smile gently—though inside I’m not smiling so much—and she continues: “I know that if I told anyone else how I feel about you, despite the circumstances of how we know each other, they’d probably think I was crazy. Greta must think I’m crazy.” Her eyes meet mine again. She’s looking for confirmation or rejection of her theory. I don’t have the heart to be honest with her.

  I put the key in the ignition and unlock the wheel so that the car will remain running.

  “Greta doesn’t think that way,” I say simply.

  I don’t look back at her this time.

  “But it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks,” she says with uncertainty. “Does it?”

  I glance over briefly.

&
nbsp; “No,” I say, though I don’t know what I’m saying, or even if I should be saying it at all. “The way anyone chooses to feel about someone else is their choice and their business.” I tried to be vague.

  She smiles and folds her hands together on her lap.

  “But I really do feel like I’ve known you forever,” she repeats. “I…can’t explain it. But it feels right.” She smiles.

  Does she want me to agree?

  What does she want from me?

  I put the car in reverse and pull out of the parking space.

  I spend all day with Cassia, just as I promised. She eventually began to loosen up and suggest places she’d like to go, things she’d like to do. It didn’t surprise me much that everything she chose was simple and not lavish or expensive. I would’ve gladly spent every dollar I own on her, bought her the most extravagant car. I would’ve done anything for her. But all she asked of me was to spend an hour and a half watching a movie in the local theatre. We ate popcorn and drank soda and sat close together with our shoes propped on the back of the empty seats in front of us. I hadn’t done anything like that in—I’ve never done anything like that. It was odd. But it was liberating and immature and unsophisticated, and I’d do it again. If she were with me. And Cassia, for such a small-framed woman, has a massive appetite—so did Seraphina. In addition to the lunch and then the popcorn, she had her fair share of fast food before the day was over.

  Shortly after nightfall, we find our way to a nice bar in the better part of town. Cassia’s choice. She’s been calling the shots since before the movie.

  “I used to sing in a bar and restaurant,” she says from the passenger’s seat. “When I lived in New York.”

  “Really?” I ask, trying to sound surprised.

  People come and go from the building in front of us all dressed in casual slacks and nice sweaters and long coats, couples arm in arm, some vaguely tipsy as they leave and make their way to their cars in the parking lot.

  Cassia watches them in a soundless, thoughtful manner; her memory of her time singing in New York surely playing through her mind.

  She looks over and smiles. “Yeah, I sang. It was my job, though.”

  I smile in return.

  “I bet you have a beautiful voice.” The most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.

  Cassia looks down at her hands in her lap, her face turning red underneath that soft skin.

  Then she giggles and says with a grin, “OK, yeah, I am pretty good,” but is immediately embarrassed by the confession.

  Leaning over the console toward her, I cup her chin in my hand and close my lips around hers, stealing her breath away. I can’t stop. I’ve missed you. I don’t want to. But you’re not you anymore. I should stop, because I know that nothing good can come from this. But I can’t.

  There has to be a way.

  The kiss breaks. I stare into her soft brown eyes, savoring the taste of her mouth lingering on my lips.

  It’s all an illusion—No…it’s not.

  “Fredrik,” I hear her voice say, but it’s faint at first while I’m locked in my own fighting thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

  I snap out of it.

  She smiles at me curiously. “Why don’t we go inside?” she asks about the bar just feet from us.

  Suddenly, I have a new plan. And this time I’m going to make it work. I look at her in silent contemplation, and within a matter of seconds I know what I have to do.

  “How about we skip the bar,” I suggest, kissing her lightly on the lips. “I think I’d rather spend the rest of the night alone with you. We can kick back and watch TV. We can soak in a warm bath together.” Anything but the bar. Anything but what might help bring back more memories. The night Greta took off her shackle and they danced and sang to Connie Francis was the night that Cassia got her memories back. Memories I never expected, but nonetheless.

  Cassia smiles. “OK,” she says without reluctance or question. “Then let’s go home.”

  Home. Seraphina has come home.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fredrik

  I never imagined feeling this way about anyone. Seraphina will always be a part of me, but this part of her that I’ll likely never understand, has been filling the holes in my soul that have been empty since I was a boy, ever since the day I brought her here. The holes that Seraphina’s darker half could not fill. I’ve never known light. Only darkness. I’ve never experienced tenderness or frailty or compassion, until Cassia. How can one person be so many things? Wear so many faces? Accommodate so many desires?

  I give Greta another full day off and I spend the next day with Cassia as well. And then the next. But by the end of the weekend, something much deeper than frustration begins to grow within me. Resentment of the truth? Knowing that what I want so badly, in reality I can’t have? And to make matters worse, I begin to realize that just because something good is standing in front of me, I can’t so easily forget who I really am inside. The need to pacify my vengeance and bloodlust is growing strong again—stronger now that my darkness feels threatened by something more powerful that is trying to hold me back, to keep me from being me. And the only thing that’ll quiet the brutal voice in the back of my mind is to find an unwilling participant and do what I do best.

  I’m trying so very hard to ignore it.

  Cassia sits beside me on the arm of the leather chair in my living room. Her fingers wind gently in top of my dark hair.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says suggestively as I’m glimpsing her naked thighs on the thick chair arm beside me.

  “Of course,” I tell her.

  I keep my eyes on the iPad in front of me on the coffee table, trying not to let myself become distracted by her.

  But like ignoring my dark side, that’s not so easy to do.

  “How did you make love to Seraphina?”

  My eyes shut in a soft, brief moment of regret. Cassia’s fingers continue to wind through my hair, sending shivers down the back of my neck.

  “I think it’s better we don’t talk about her.” I run my fingertip over the screen, pretending to be pre-occupied. But all I can think about is the way her skin smells and how warm her hip is pressed against my arm.

  “What was she like? In bed, I mean.”

  “Cassia—.” I stop myself from sounding angry and let my breath out in a heavy sigh. “Please, you promised you wouldn’t do this.”

  She slides off the chair arm and straddles my lap.

  I swell uncomfortably beneath the fabric of my pants, but I can’t will myself to readjust it because I don’t want to move her even an inch from my lap. She’s wearing a gray tank top with no bra and a small tight pair of pink cotton panties. I glimpse down between her legs spread with her thighs on either side of me, her knees pressed into the cushion, and my head begins to spin with need.

  “Fredrik…please.” She softens her gaze to the point of frowning and I fight not to be putty in her fucking hands. “The way you were with me all the times before—you were different. Sometimes rough, other times you looked at me before you took me as if you were fighting something inside. Something predatory, primal.” She moves her little hips on my lap with purpose. I can’t breathe. “You were always holding something back with me. And now…,” she leans inward and slides her tongue between my lips once. I can’t see through my tingling eyelids. “…now you treat me with such frailty.”

  “Would you prefer that I didn’t?” I ask with a purpose of my own—I want to make her feel guilty so she’ll drop this. “What, you don’t like it?”

  She pulls away from my lips and tilts her head dejectedly to one side. “No, no, I do.” She rests her hands on my shirt-covered chest. “Sometimes I feel like I could come just when you touch me. I never want you to change. I need you to be the way you are. The way you make me feel…I’ve never felt it before.”

  “Then what does it matter how I was with Seraphina?” I tilt my head in the same manner, looking up at her. “
Why do you care?”

  “Curiosity, I guess.” She shrugs and somehow even that is sexy to me. “Maybe I want you to—”

  A streak of jealousy shoots through me all of a sudden and she notices the change right away.

  “Cassia,” I say trailing my fingertips down the softness of her bare arms, “You say you’ve never felt it before, the way you feel with me—have you been with other men?”

  Her face falls and she looks downward at her hands now resting between her panties and my stomach. She doesn’t look ashamed. She appears as blank as she did when I asked her a few nights ago where she got the scars on her back and she couldn’t recall.

  Her eyes meet mine with reluctance.

  “Not that I can remember,” she says. “Never when I lived in New York. But before that—I don’t know.”

  “Can you remember anything before New York?”

  She shakes her head and now looks ashamed.

  “Come here,” I say, cupping the back of her head and pulling her toward my shoulder where she rests the side of her face. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Fredrik?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I had been with other men, would you still keep me here with you?”

  My hand stiffens in her hair and I press her tightly against me, wrapping the other hand around her back.

  I don’t know.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “It wouldn’t matter to me,” I lie.

  With any other woman other than Seraphina, it wouldn’t matter to me who or how many men she has been with. But Seraphina was different. She wasn’t a virgin when we met, but I knew by her refusal to talk about her first time, that it was someone she needed to forget. Seraphina called me her ‘true first’. She despised men. I was the only man she could ever love. The only man she would ever let touch her. Seraphina killed men for touching her—if I didn’t get to them first. But I was the only one. Until Marcus at Safe House Sixteen. And I killed him ten days after I found out.

  Cassia raises her body from mine and looks into my eyes smiling soft and coyly. And again with purpose, she presses herself against my hardness below and I lose my breath. A low, guttural growl rumbles quietly through my chest.